


Please, Please, Please, Let Me Get What I Want

by monorunner



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha Mycroft, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Holmes Brothers, Human Trafficking, Kidnapping, M/M, Masturbation, Omega Sherlock, Omega Verse, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sibling Incest, holmescest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-24
Updated: 2014-09-05
Packaged: 2018-02-10 06:24:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2014458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monorunner/pseuds/monorunner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Afraid of Mycroft's reaction to his presenting as an omega, Sherlock, in his first heat, ran into the street.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Good Times for a Change

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to psycho1122 for the title.

It was morning. Saturday morning. A warm and quiet Saturday morning. Around 7a.m. judging by the sound of the traffic outside and the angle of incoming sunlight leaking from the pulled curtain.

Sherlock was lying on his belly in Mycroft’s bed, alone.

Why was he here? Why was he alone? Oh right.

Curling his toes, he realised he had kicked off the duvet somewhere in his dreams, then remembered he was completely naked. It was strange, because he still felt unbearably hot. His skin seems to be burning, his head dizzy, mouth dry and throat sore. Water, he knew his body needed some water or perhaps lots of, but he didn’t want to get up, not at all.

Not fully woken, he stirred, seeking friction from the sheet, pressing his hips down a bit to give some more pressure to his cock.

Hot. Strange. Uncomfortable. Not well.

Sod it. No use whatsoever. He ground his hips again.

It had lasted for a week.

What bothered him most was not his morning erection, to which as a healthy male at the age of twenty he was no stranger. For all his disinterest in physical relationships, he had long gotten used to this biological defect suggesting his body was still every inch a human, yielding to useless sexual needs, or just the hint of that. He had not presented though, maybe never would if family history was any good an indicator - every Holmes he knew was either an alpha, or never presented in the entire life. This gave him some sense of comfort and rightfulness when he claimed his body was only transport, especially when compared to Mycroft.

It had lasted for a week. Not his morning erection. The annoyance lay in his unusual reaction towards it.

He started to recite the periodic table and play _Brandenburg Concertos_ mentally at the same time, which should not be a tough task for a brain like his but somehow it was not functioning smoothly. He seemed to be using almost 85% of his brainpower, yet intellectual challenges failed to distract him from the deep trap of his body. He tried playing chess with himself, listing all the coffee shops in the area in alphabetical order, dissecting a frog and meditation. The result was disappointing.

He bit his bottom lip, wriggled on the sheet to find a comfortable position but there was none. He couldn’t help but seek more friction by thrusting his hips rhythmically, giving his uncompromising erection continuous sensation. He could not deny the pleasure, nor could he deny that the fact he was squirming like an animal with promiscuous abandon was making him wanting more, and thrusting harder. _You animal._ He condemned himself, who was not listening. He was struggling not to use his hands, as if that would mean the end of all reasons, the point of no return - exactly what had been happening for the whole week.

He believed that something must be wrong with him. He must be ill, or poisoned, or even manipulated in a stealthy way he could not find out. Indeed there had been other indicators.

One was that, during this week, his mind had been keeping veering off to weird objects. Victor’s fingers, for example, which he caught himself staring at for like ten minutes without even realising it the day before. It was true that he had always admired Victor’s fingers - long, straight and tapering, ever moving so elegantly yet forcefully.

Of course the first time they met, Sherlock had observed and categorised all his obvious traits, including his beautiful hands, but it was when he saw Victor play darts in his house when he stayed over did he refreshed the record and give them an almost full mark. Victor was a genius at the game of darts and he had his own way of spinning them around his fingers and throwing them to the target that never before had Sherlock seen.

Yesterday in the literature class, Sherlock was sitting behind Victor who was used to reading while caressing the paper with his fingers. Sherlock naturally read fast, twice as fast as the average at least, and when he had finished he was bored Then he found himself observing Vincent’s fingers, which were caressing the paper gently and rhythmically while their owner was reading with full attention. Sherlock involuntarily swallowed and shifted in his seat, feeling that particular kind of uneasiness was again coiling low in his belly. He didn’t even realise he was staring until the professor broke the silence in the lecture hall with his disagreeable sound of voice. Sherlock would have been very surprised if it had been a week earlier, but truth be told he was not back then. Flutes, microphones, razors and even eggplants, these were all the things he had spent precious time observing without any conclusion or even consciousness in the first place.

The only person he knew who had more attractive fingers was Mycroft, he had to gave his brother that. When he was a child he would always stare at those elegant fingers when Mycroft was playing the piano. He only peeked now because he felt more or less embarrassed, but age didn’t impair that perfection in any way.

_Mycroft’s fingers lingering about the keys, accurately and gracefully, making amazing music, up and down, left then right, protrude finger joints curling and uncurling, forward and backward. Forward and backward. The passion, the technique, the magic of his finger tips._ Sherlock actually moaned. He didn’t know why. The thought of Mycroft, especially the forward and backward movement he depicted in his mind only made him feel hotter.

He had been able to ignore his morning erection with ease for most time of his life so far, but things were getting beyond control since this Monday - he had been masturbating for six days in a row. His cock was impossibly hard. Couldn’t bear it any longer, he rolled onto his back, wrapped his hand around it with resignation, and _shivered_. It was hypersensitive, even the familiar touch of his own hand could set his nerve endings on fire. He didn’t hold back another moan.

Tightening his hand, he started stroking, in Mycroft’s bed. What would his brother have said if he had known? If he had known that within eight hours his little brother had wanked in his bed twice? Oh Mycroft. He would have most probably ignored him or chided him, raising his brows and asking in an arched tone ‘Oh must you, Sherlock?’ But despite his emotionless face and apparent nonchalance and sometimes apathy, his inclination to aloneness and consignation to solitude even as an alpha, he was after all a human being. So there must be a slight chance, Sherlock allowed himself to think, that sometimes even Mycroft could not deny the sexual needs of his body, that if he had ever found out what he was doing now - he massaged the head of his cock with his thumb, stuck out his tongue and grazed it against his upper teeth - he might have joined him, lying next to him mirroring him or even… His heart was pounding hard. He couldn’t quite picture Mycroft like that but the idea of it was enough to make him groan and quicken his hand.

He came here last night, hoping that Mycroft would tell him what had happened to him and why he was having all those infuriating feelings. Mycroft had presented years ago as an alpha, like every other Holmes in the current family, but stayed unbonded. Sherlock wasn’t even sure whether he had had sex before or not but he deduced he must have - at least he must have masturbated, although Sherlock was not entirely certain about that either. Anyway Mycroft was seven years older, and most importantly, Mycroft always knew.

With these thoughts he came a long way from his dorm to Mycroft’s place, opened the front door with the key his brother gave him, quickly deduced from the shoe cabinet that Mycroft wasn’t home, treated himself with a strawberry cake in the fridge, and called from landline. It turned out Mycroft was dealing with some frivolous diplomatic issues boring as the solar system in Germany. Sherlock refusing to tell him what he was here for, Mycroft sighed and said he would be back this morning, inviting him customarily to stay over (as if he had ever planned to leave) - it would be two more hours.

Sherlock turned over, hoping the lack of suppression of his chest would make him breathe easier.

Of course it was a big house and Sherlock knew where the guest room was, but he chose not to sleep there. Mycroft would not expect him to anyway. He didn’t only do it to show his justifiable presumptuousness, but also because Mycroft’s room was smelling very good, pervasive with an odour that he had never known before and failed to deduce and resist. He inhaled deeply - the smell which was both soothing and arousing was still there, although had somewhat dissipated.

11.30p.m, lying in his brother’s bed, Sherlock felt quite drowsy. Probably it was him, probably the mystic scent, or simply the softness of the expensive bedclothes. He wasn’t sure. He also wasn’t sure why his cock was erect, his hand stroking or why he was moaning. He had thrown away all the clothes onto the floor but he was still burning.

He came within five minutes. Too tired to clean himself and with the last sanity of his brain reiterating the fact that it was Mycroft’s bed, he fell asleep.

 

Now, eight hours later, his brain was finally processing the ramifications, but not for long. The image of Mycroft’s umbrella came to his mind uninvited, more specifically, the image of Mycroft holding his signature umbrella.

He was quite irritating about the fact that he had been constantly thinking about weird things and worse still, ever curious and inquisitive as he was, he had given up finding the answer. The remaining reason of his brain made a final struggle and concluded the common traits these things shared - long and tapering. Sherlock twisted his fingers, feeling his precome oozing out. It never took too long this week and he was already close, so he granted himself full indulgence.

_Mycroft holding the umbrella, straddling him on his knees, tracing his body with the end of the umbrella, from his cheeks to his neck to his collarbone, lingering there for a bit and then going down to his nipple, the cold metal of the ferrule toying._ Sherlock’s left hand pinched his own nipple and he inhaled sharply, further quickening his hand.

He looked at Mycroft whose expression was beyond him, whose shirt was still in perfect condition and trousers showed a bulge. _The umbrella tracing further down, pressing his burning skin leaving marks, circling his abs, circumventing his cock, teasing his balls and then…_ He cried out “please” rather hoarsely, barely registering it was the first time he had let his voice out this morning. Why was he saying that? Who was he begging? He didn’t know, nor did he care to think. “Please. Please please please please.” He husked breathlessly as the tension built up in his already tensed body which was about to explode. And then he came, fiercely. He didn’t hold back his cry when white, dense semen spouted out and he dissolved into pleasure.

_“Oh Sherlock, look at you. You are debauched.”_ Mycroft’s voice was dark, Sherlock imagined, though he realised he had never heard his brother speaking like that before but somehow it was not difficult to visualise him in that smirk and demonish way. He was panting hard, dripping with sweat and feeling quite giddy.

But the thing was, it still didn’t help.

The release failed to ease his discomfort in any way. His cock was still erect and heart hammering. He could even feel his own come vaporising from his feverish skin. He couldn't help but let his sinful fantasy play on, depicting Mycroft throwing away the umbrella and finally touching him with his own hands, continuing the quest. _Mycroft’s hand wrapping around his cock, stroking it with just the right strength from just the right angle. His other hand sneaking further down, massaging his balls then prostrate, to the spot..._

Hand still around his hard cock, Sherlock shifted on the bed and suddenly felt a coolness around his hip. Unseeingly he touched the sheet - it was wet.

Deductions ran quickly in his head even though he could barely think and - no, it couldn’t be. He moved his hand a bit up to his arse. He was dripping.

No.

After three seconds of absolute blankness, his first impulse was to flee.

Mycroft would soon be back. He would be ashamed. He would be ashamed of him.

He jumped out of the bed despite all his inertia, grabbed his clothes on the floor, and ran pell-mell for the door. He had to get out. He knew it would be very dangerous, for him in such a messy state to wander the streets, but his brain wasn’t functioning properly and he could not think of any other way out at the moment. All that was occupying his mind was: Mycroft would soon be back, and he would be ashamed.

Because he had presented, and for at least one hundred years, he had become the first omega in the Holmes family.

An unbonded omega in heat, he put on his coat, shut the door behind him and ran into the street.

 

 


	2. So Please, Please, Please, Let Me, Let Me, Let Me

Sherlock walked into the street, his head heavy and skin burning. He realised the scent in Mycroft's bedroom was the hormone of an alpha, and not only confined to that room though particularly strong there - traces could be found in the whole house that it was the dwell of an unbonded alpha he recalled. Greeting the fresh air outside, Sherlock was both refreshed and reluctant.

The world seemed to be spinning and everything was vague and its colour false. He had to go as far away from here as possible, to somewhere safe and familiar, but university was not an option - there were far too many stupid alphas with raging hormones there.

The moment he stepped out of the door, a gardener across the street raised his head to look at him. The crude form of lust gave even the dullest idiot the intuitive deductive prowess. Their eyes locked for several seconds before that strong and robust fellow doffed his gloves and started walking towards him. Sherlock didn't move. The need and subconsciousness of an omega in heat were urging him to stay where he was waiting to be touched and fucked and bonded - he felt his natural lubricant oozing out and cock twitching - but his reason and consciousness which still had a say for now was forcing himself to run and get away.

And his consciousness won. Sherlock broke the stare and started to run along the street before his muscles were sore and energy drained, which was not long. He walked into a narrow lane he recently discovered by chance when exploring London foot by foot. It was a good idea since few people would know let alone take this path and he could be left alone for a while to catch his breath, think about his plan and make decisions. It was also a very bad idea, because if anyone did turn up, it most likely would be someone of trouble, and the chance for him to escape then would be narrower than the lane itself. It was a gamble.

He should have known that luck was not very fond of him today.

He was leaning against the wall, shifting his legs quite uneasily and pressing his cock through his trousers to ease the discomfort when he smelt it, the scent of an alpha. His arse clenched around nothing.

_Oh I want something in there._

_I want something in there._

_Anything will do._

He raised his eyes and saw a young man coming his way. He was a bit shorter yet stronger than Sherlock, had dark short hair and, as he walked closer, shining green eyes - a handsome and healthy young alpha. Sherlock was pinned to the spot, unable to move or think. The man stopped in front of him and looked into him, asking a silent question.

_Yes, please. Touch me. Kiss me. I want you._

_Oh how I want you._

Sherlock swallowed and gazed at him in a way that even another omega would find inviting and irresistible. There was a mixture of genteel hesitation and possessive determination in the man's attractive eyes that was most arousing to Sherlock. He lowered his eyes to the man's mouth and raised them again, parted his lips slightly, inhaled the intoxicating scent of a healthy and aroused alpha and leaned forward.

_Come touch me. Kiss me. Mark me. Fuck me. Claim me. Bond me._

_I want it. I want it so bad. So so so bad._

The man closed their distance further, trapping Sherlock with his beautiful eyes and addictive scent.

_I'm so wet my trousers are damp. So hard it aches._

_I'd probably die if you don't let me get what I want._

_So please please please PLEASE. Give it to me._

"I'm Laurence." The man breathed, inches away from Sherlock's mouth, "You're so beautiful and smell so good." He inhaled, "It's a crime." His voice was low and dark.

Before Sherlock could reply, Laurence suddenly held tight his waist, right hand in his coat, fingers raising the hem of his t-shirt and sneaking underneath. His left hand went into the unruly curls and pulled Sherlock in when he murmured his own name in return.

The first overdue touch of their lips was so dazzling they both shivered. Sherlock's mouth was hot, wet and craving for invasion, as was his cleft. As hot and wet, Laurence's tongue was more than ready to invade, as was his erection. So he thrust in his tongue right to the very depth of Sherlock's waiting mouth and rock his hips to rub their cocks.

_No no no no no. Not remotely enough._

Sherlock opened his mouth wider and brushed his tongue against Laurence's in haste and then sucked on it, shuddering at the sensation. Laurence took the hint. His right hand moved down to Sherlock's arse cheeks and pinched, while his tongue mimicked the thing he had in mind that he was going to do to this stunning horny omega who was wriggling with debauchery in a minute or two. They both inhaled sharply when Laurence's hand explored further down to where the trousers were damp as the weather in London.

"Sherlock oh god." The voice was dripping with sex, "I want you. I want you now. I want to thrust my cock deep into your arse. It's going to be so good." His hand moved up again to the spot they were both thinking about feverishly. The layers were annoying.

Sherlock wanted him to stop talking and do it right here and now because he couldn't wait any longer. No, not a second longer.

_Now now now now now now NOW._

He undid his own belt hastily to convey this message, the tinkling of the metal resounding in the narrow lane. Laurence helped him with it and, not breaking their mouths, pulled Sherlock's trousers down with dispatch. Seconds later, both of their trousers and underwears had given way. Laurence stroked their cocks together with his right hand and rubbed Sherlock’s arse cheeks with the left. Sherlock pressed himself against him harder and rock his hips in synchronisation. Laurence's tongue felt so amazing he wanted to kiss him and be kissed till he could not breathe any longer, but the movement of it - the rhythmical thrust - drained all his patience. Wrapping his tongue tight as his arse would have done if the hard cock he was feeling so real and was so real had been doing the same thing, Sherlock put his hands at Laurence's hips and pulled, begging silently.

Laurence broke the kiss with a lick of the corner of Sherlock's mouth and said in a gentle but breathless voice, "Turn around my dear."

_It's finally gonna happen._

_Oh god, yes._

Sherlock turned around and rest his forehead against the wall. Without any warning hot breath was coming into his ear and his prostate was rubbed along by a cock hard as rock.

Sherlock moaned as Laurence whispered into his ear, "I'll give you what you want." The sound of his voice and the words made him quiver. Grinding his hips, Sherlock barely managed, "Please. Now."

They were both too engaged and enchanted to notice the smell of another two alphas approaching.

Laurence's fingers lingered about Sherlock's dripping hole, "You are so wet I don't think you need any preparation."

"I don't know. I've never... I only presented less than an hour ago." Sherlock confessed. He wanted it now but he had no experience at all, so he didn't know how to proceed.

Laurence was clearly surprised at his words but he kissed the back of Sherlock's neck gently and said, "Don't you worry my dear, leave it to me."

Oddly enough Sherlock trusted him. It could be the hormones but he felt more - something in Laurence made him familiar and trustworthy. Sherlock relaxed and waited for the first invasion he had been waiting and wanting for longer than he could bear, but what came was 'You two horny boys, why not have some fun together?'

They both turned around at the unpleasant voice, Laurence holding Sherlock tighter and covering his body with his own, protecting him. He helped Sherlock pull up his trousers before dealing with his own.

"He's mine." He said, his voice ice cold, contrasting sharply the warmth and gentleness Sherlock had felt. He found himself producing more lubricants at the words. Oh how he would like to be owned and claimed!

One man with receding hairline hissed, "You need to learn to share good things lad. Haven't they taught you in school?" The other man who was younger laughed, showing his yellow teeth.

Laurence was clearly outraged, for Sherlock could feel his body tensing at the word 'things'. "He's not a thing. Fuck off." He snarled. Sherlock educated himself to believe it was just the act of an alpha defending and claiming the ownership of his omega, but he felt grateful and protected and somehow safe, though it was hardly a safe situation.

"You need to learn some manners kid." The younger man shouted back, casting a look on his fellow who nodded in return.

Moments later they were only steps away. The older man pulled them apart by grabbing Laurence with the strength they didn't see in his build and threw him to the other wall, and the younger one took hold of him immediately.

"Run!" Laurence yelled.

Sherlock hesitated and a hand caught him tight. "Come pretty boy. I know you want to be fucked." The older man gave a nasty grin. Sherlock found his strength and tried to pluck the hand off his arm while Laurence fought for freedom and cried, "Leave him alone!"

Then all of a sudden Sherlock heard a groan from the younger man and was pushed forward - Laurence had freed himself and kicked him hard.

"Run Sherlock!"

Both of them ran to the nearest end of the lane, the angry shouting of the older man following them closely.

"We have to separate. There might be more coming." Laurence pointed to the end several yards ahead, "You go left. Be safe."

"Laurence..." Sherlock started but was immediately interrupted, "Trust me."

Sherlock nodded without much thinking but he was reluctant to leave Laurence, be it sentiment or hormones, so he tried again, "Laurence I..."

"We'll meet again." Laurence smiled knowingly, "Now go! Be safe."

And they parted.

 

The moment Sherlock turned into the main street, all that had just happened seemed remote and unreal. He glanced around while urging his legs to move as quickly as they could, gathering his wits to make a plan.

Laurence was just saying, he told himself, because they would never meet each other again. How would they? He had to admit he was feeling quite lost and sentimental but he blamed all these annoying new feelings entirely on the hormones - indeed, he was never like this before. As he moved along the street, Sherlock noticed the leering of many passersby, some even whistled, accompanying by different smells of alphas. He must be emitting a stronger scent now that he had been deprived of pleasure when he was so close to it. He must get to somewhere safe, as soon as possible.

Who could he rely on? The first one came to mind was Mycroft, who unfortunately was the initial reason he was now running on the street. Mycroft would always provide a shelter, sometimes even unconditionally, even when he had done something really bad or made some fairly unreasonable requests, but not today.

_Mycroft will be ashamed_.

The thought of Mycroft made him suddenly realise why he trusted Laurence so easily it was almost scary thinking back. They shared certain similarities, Laurence and Mycroft, that gentry and power - though they might be different kinds of power.

_No, don't think about Mycroft now._

He needed to find a place where he could shelter or someone he could trust.

Victor. Right. He was a beta and would lend a roof.

Sherlock calculated the route and his possible ways to get there as he slowed down due to lack of energy. Public transportation would be too dangerous, he needed to get a cab, which meant first he needed some money.

His mind loading the area map, Sherlock locked his target at a nearby coffee shop where some business people would be in the outdoor seats this time of the day. He had to be quick, finish his burglary before more Londoners started coming out.

A frowning man in his early forties was sitting there reading a newspaper, with a cup of coffee on the desk and a briefcase by his feet. His wallet was on the desk beside the cup. He seemed a possibility. A lady in blue blouse came to sat behind him and as she pulled her chair, she accidentally hit the man with her elbow. The man put down his newspaper and turned around immediately. She apologised but he began to spat, rather harshly, and told her that he would like to be left alone and asked her to pick another seat.

Target acquired.

Sherlock took out a penny of the only three he had with him from his pocket and walked towards the man, not looking at him but ahead. As he was about five steps away, he tossed the coin to just under the table and, not stopping for a second, he kept on walking, patted the man on his shoulder, pointed at the penny and said, “Sir, you dropped a penny.”

With an “oh” the man put down his newspaper and bowed to have a look, as Sherlock slipped his wallet into his pocket and continued walking. The man picked up the penny, put it on the table and went back to reading without immediate notice his wallet was gone. Good. Sherlock quickened his step and made the turn into another street where he was quite familiar with and knew where to run lest the man realised what had happened.

Mission accomplished.

Exhaling in relief that the man was most likely a beta who failed to recognise his scent thus giving him less attention, Sherlock took out all the cash in the wallet and threw it away as soon as he could do so unobserved, when he smelt an alpha coming his way very quickly. He didn’t have the time to turn around and see who it was before his arm got caught from behind.

“You.” said the man about the same height as him, ”Stealing is not encouraged.” He gave a humorless smile, “I should take you to the police but look how beautiful you are.” The man licked his corner and scrutinise Sherlock, “And how good you smell. Your little trick was very impressive you could have got away if I hadn’t been watching you thinking ‘oh the poor pretty omega, who let you loose on the streets’.”

Sherlock tried to escape, willed himself to escape but the presence of an alpha so close to him made his mind foggy and limbs weak. He registered his cock was still hard, trousers wet and the discomfort had not gone anywhere.

_Rape me._

_Right here and now._

“I’ll give you one more chance.” The man continued, but Sherlock couldn’t really focus, “You are smart I can tell. You know what I’m offering.” The man grabbed his arm tighter and squeezed, prompting Sherlock to say something. Of course he knew what he was offering - it was only too patent.

_Do it._

_Come fuck me. I’ve waited for so long. I can’t wait any longer._

He’d like to say that - actually the words nearly came out when they were interrupted, by the woman in blue blouse he saw just now outside the coffee shop. “Leave him alone.” She said, quite sternly, “Or I will call the police.”

The man was clearly not happy, “It’s none of your business.” He said rudely.

The woman took out her phone, “I _will_ call the police.” She didn’t even blink, looking right into the man’s eyes, who after several seconds released Sherlock and went away. Had the street been less popular, Sherlock imagined, he must have beaten her and gone on with his business.

He felt quite lucky, but a sense of lost refused to subside. He must have lost his mind.

The woman exhaled in relief and smiled, “Thanks.”

“What for?”

“For taking the wallet.”

“He deserves it. And I need it.” Sherlock replied.

The woman smiled again, “You are looking for somewhere safe I take? I don’t know why you are out here, it’s very dangerous but I suppose you have your reasons.”

Sherlock nodded. Mycroft showed up in his mind again and he realised he had only got one hour left to get away from this area, where Mycroft could easily find him within half an hour.

“My friend owns a pub nearby. We can go there. You need some food and water.” She looked quite concerned at his lips and Sherlock remembered they were dry and possibly chapped, “You’ll be safe there. Trust me.”

Safe, yes, he supposed he would be safe around women because they didn’t have the hormones to hurt him, and he did need some food and water. He hadn’t been eating since Friday morning and the heat had drained most of his energy, leaving him hungry and lacking energy.

So he followed the woman, passing three blocks to a rather quiet area, quiet even for a Saturday morning. There stood a pub, closed. The woman knocked on the back door and yelled, “Sylvia! It’s me.”

Seconds later a red-haired woman came to the door and said with a half yawn, “Morning Lily.” Quite sleepy in her pajamas, she scanned him and let them in.

“This is not the first time you know.” Sylvia said after Lily had told the story, “Here has been providing shelter for many poor omegas like you.” She smiled at Sherlock who was having the toast they offered him, and then became serious, “Those alphas with raging hormones, they really need some discipline.”

Sherlock mumbled “thank you” but didn’t say more, for he was still not feeling well. The absence of the smell of alphas cleared his head a bit but his own hormones are not going anywhere. The sense of safety he was feeling accentuated the exhaustion and pain of his body, and also the desire to release. He shifted in his seat.

“You look pale darling.” Lily spoke again as she turned around to open the cabinet and from very outside she took out some pills - she was telling the truth about sheltering omegas, Sherlock thought, for it took her no effort to find them. Lily refilled Sherlock’s cup with hot water and gave him the pills, “This can relieve your pain. Take two at a time.”

And Sherlock did. He felt his body calming down gradually, but his consciousness fading also.

Sylvia smiled, “Now have a good rest. You’ll get much better when you wake up.” Her voice was sweet and comforting, and that was the last thing Sherlock knew before he later woke up chained in a cage in the center of a stage stinking with the smell of alphas.

He fell asleep on the counter and missed the following conversation.

Sylvia sighed and looked at Sherlock who was already asleep, “He’s beautiful.”

Lily took the pills and put them back to where they were, “He’s worth a good price.”

“I feel bad Lily.” Sylvia said slowly.

“Oh don’t. You know what will happen to us if we betray the organisation.” Lily became alert, “Now make the call.”

Sylvia did as told. “Boss, we’ve got another one. I hope you haven’t sailed. He’s pretty.”

 

* * *

 

 

Mycroft opened his front door. He knew his brother was in his bedroom.

He condemned his heartbeat which was too prominent in his chest - he hated himself for that. He wished his brother was properly dressed but he had no confidence at all, nor did he have any faith in himself to behave as normal if Sherlock did appear in his dressing gown with his chest bare. Mycroft swallowed and settled his coat and umbrella.

True his brother hadn’t presented yet. Mycroft had always told himself that one day for sure Sherlock would present as an alpha and then his secret desire for his little brother would turn out to be an extremely irrational infatuation and everything would go back to normal - if there had been normality before. He had been waiting for that day for years, but until then he indulged himself - he hated himself for that too.

But what if Sherlock would never present? Family history suggested the possibility, for which Mycroft stayed unbonded. The day Sherlock would present was the deadline he had given himself but what if that day would never come? What would he do? How long could he remain like this? He sighed and rallied his self-control as he walked up the stairs, searching for possible reasons why Sherlock was here. Usually it would be he had got himself into trouble again.

Then he stopped sharply.

_The scent of an omega._

He rushed to his bedroom, the scent stronger each step, his mind automatically deducing what had happened. _But it can’t be._

Wrinkled sheets, the white dressing gown of his on the floor, the scent of an omega.

The scent of Sherlock.

_Oh Sherlock._

The world was static for a long ten seconds and everything lost its sound and colour as Mycroft processed this unexpected information, going through all his hypotheses and overthrowing all the plans he had made, before he kicked himself back to reality and took out his phone.

“It’s me. Red alert. Active.”

He put on his coat and picked up his umbrella. _Please be safe Sherlock. Please._

His little brother had presented as an omega, and he was in danger - Mycroft’s instinct told him so, and for once he believed it without hard evidence. Because it was his brother, because it was Sherlock, the only person he couldn’t bear to lose in this whole world.

 

  


 

 

 

 


	3. Haven't Had A Dream in A Long Time

Mycroft was kissing him.

He was lying on his back in the bed and Mycroft was on him, propping himself up with his elbows. The scent. The scent he knew so well but only just realised it was concocted with hormones of an alpha. The touch. Mycroft’s fingertips… Oh those fingertips he had been admiring so much since he was still a little boy, were caressing his neck and collarbone. And these lips, nibbling and wetting his own, which were parted and yearning, begging…

_Oh Mycroft._

He opened wide his mouth and slightly stuck out his tongue, but failed to touch anything.

Mycroft was not here.

He opened his eyes, just a bit. His vision was blurred. He could see lights, faint halos outlining the figure of a man. A man… not Mycroft. A beta.

_Where am I?_

He was out of consciousness he realised. His head was heavy and, lying on his back, he couldn’t get his limbs to move. His senses which were functioning so well in his dream were missing in reality – he could see nothing but the light and the vague figure, hear nothing but his own breath, which was quick and dry, smell nothing but…

Wait. He smelt something.

There was a strong smell in the air, some sort of varied but homogeneous smell. Sherlock wasn’t very familiar with it, but his instinct was quite sure what it was – the smell of alphas, a lot of alphas.

He stirred, and immediately registered the tinkling of the metal engendered by his movement. His hearing had started to recover, so had his control of his limbs.

He tried to raise his hand to rub his eyes, but found he couldn’t.

More tinkling, waking him up.

Then he realised he was chained to a slightly leaning bed by cuffs around his wrists and ankles, arms and legs spreading out and restrained as the Vitruvian Man – although he was sure there were more proper terms for it. A leather pillow supported his head so that he could see his toes, with microphones, he noted, installed on both sides of it. A white sheet was covering the lower part of his body but otherwise he was completely naked.

_Where am I? What’s happened?_

He thought back, trying to regain his memory and remembered he presented this morning, as an omega. Was it even this morning? For how long had he lost his consciousness?

He felt dizzy and drowsy but urged himself to come round. His adrenaline must have been attenuated by hormones, for in such obvious danger he was, his mind was still foggy.

“Now comes the best of all.” A voice broadcasted, generating some echoes – he must be in a big room, a hall even. “Our last treasure of tonight. This young man has a charming face and lean body. Dark curls and high cheekbones. You can see from the screens that he’s really a looker.”

Screens? Sherlock reopened his eyes as wide as he could, and saw another figure looming over him. The man, also a beta, was holding a video recorder, filming him.

“And, most precious of all…” The voice continued, “He’s still a virgin. When we discovered him this morning, he had just presented!”

The announcement immediately got strong responses from… the audience.

The audience?

Sherlock heard sighs, exclamations and whistles from all around. His senses had begun to recover and he struggled to glean the information from what he could perceive. He had a vague understanding that he had been trafficked, by some nasty omega trading organisation, and he was currently being exhibited, in a hall with… around 200 people. He had to admit he was quite surprised by his own deduction – he knew he must be right, he always was, but 200…

Now that his vision had fully come back, deduction was much easier with the aid of it – he found himself positioned on a round stage centred in a hall, several feet above and away from the auditorium. The stage was well lit but the hall was dim enough to obscure the faces of even the front row audience. He supposed these were all rich alphas from all parts of England, Europe even.

“Now my distinguished guests, without further ado, let me present to you all that you want to know about our tasty precious… and if you would like to know more, with him alone in our VIP chamber, equipped already with all you would possibly need… you’ll have to win the bidding. The price starts at £10,000!”

An LED screen above him lit up with the price in large bold font on it. Sherlock didn’t give the price much notice – which seconds after the announcement had already tripled – but ‘chamber’… So this must be a hotel or a rather big house, big enough to accommodate 200 guests and all the staff. Where could it possibly locate? To his knowledge definitely not in London. Could it be…

“Um…”

The moan came out uninvited from his own mouth and echoed throughout the hall – a hand threw away the sheet and wrapped around his hard cock.

_Oh god, the sensation._

He hadn’t given his cock much thought since he woke up. He supposed the awareness of his current situation and all the thinking had put his sexual needs on hold, but none of those actually eased his pain – the pain caused by strong, undeniable lust in the very core of his being yearning for care and intrusion.

_I want to be fucked._

_I’m an omega in heat. I need a good fuck._

The touch had brought back all the desire and tension. Sherlock shifted involuntarily.

_I need more._

It was a struggle not to move his hips but the humiliation he felt and his pride forbade him to succumb to the temptation, for now. To be honest he didn’t know how long he could last before he let go all the control – he had no experience after all.

The hand started stroking, slowly but forcefully. Sherlock bit back one moan after another, but the microphones captured all his sharp inhalation and restrained sounds, amplifying them. He could hear his quickened breath being clearly broadcasted.

The stroking felt better than he would like to admit and shortly his hole was so wet and pining for invasion that he felt itchy. He closed his eyes.

As if nothing gave the tissue some friction this moment, right this moment, he was going to be insane. Sherlock wriggled at the thought and stretched his legs, the chains making more noises at his move. His cock twitched – the sensation was almost too much. He knew that if the man kept this rhythm and added just a little more stimulation, he would soon be over the edge, in the hand of a stranger, chained, in front of all those 200 disgusting alphas.

The thought just made him ache, but the man suddenly stopped and shortly afterwards the voice spoke again, “The most secret spot of our precious is still a virgin land. My friends, I think it’s time for us to do some exploration.”

Sherlock swallowed. Yes’s and no’s weaving and resounding in his head, he felt he was going to explode.

_Yes, do it. I’ve been wanting it for so long. Longer than my sanity can last. No. No no no no no! Don’t! Mycroft will be ashamed… I’m an omega. I need fucking. Someone just… I need it… Need it so badly. Yes give it to me. Now now now now NOW! No don’t. Don’t. Don’t you dare come any nearer. Please please please…_

“…please…” That was what he let out, what he uttered with cracked voice, what was immediately captured by the microphones and broadcasted to the whole audience. He knew he was losing it.

“Oh precious, please what?” The voice teased, echoed by noises from the audience. “You see this?”

The man took a dildo out of the drawer sitting next to the bed. It was black, not too thick, but big, and long. His arse cheeks clenched and he squirmed on the bed.

The cameraman shifted the recorder away from his face and slowly moved down along his body. Sherlock felt intolerably hot, as if he was being touched by 200 people, 200 alphas, strangers, following the route of the camera lens. The audience were making louder noises than ever before, talking, exclaiming and swearing, especially when the video recorder stopped right above his erect, twitching and already wet cock – _fuck they are all looking at me, all 200 alphas._ The smell in the room grew stronger, leaving him intoxicated and on the brink of losing his marbles.

The man holding the dildo came nearer to him, showing him the black thing right in front of his eyes and smiled wickedly, “How do you want it?”

_It's gonna fuck me. Oh god it’s gonna be so good. Fill me… I’m gonna be filled.._

Sherlock couldn’t believe he could produce more lubricant but he did.

_Oh I want it. Want the whole of it. Fuck me fuck me FUCK ME._

“Say it, precious, beg nicely.”

Sherlock opened his mouth but couldn’t bring himself to say it – all that was him forbade him to even make a sound, urged him to stay put and ignore everything that was going on and think, think, think of a way out.

He closed his eyes – it didn’t help. He could still see the outline of the dildo, and couldn’t possibly stop himself from imagining how fucking good it would feel when he was being unfolded by it, when it tentatively opened his cleft then directly thrust in, right to the very point that had been itchy, so itchy for hours.

“Oh you wouldn’t say a word would you? Pity we would like to hear your voice.” The man’s voice was oily, “But then maybe,” he paused, “Maybe, your pretty mouth can be put into some other uses.”

Hardly had the man finished when the dildo was shoved into Sherlock’s mouth, deep. He tried to resist and shook his head in hope of ridding the man of the hold, but apparently this guy, who was more than likely trained and had taken care of a dozen omegas just now, was well experienced in handling such situation. The dildo was steady in his mouth and worse still, the touch and friction Sherlock himself caused while wriggling about was starting to make him weird, weirder actually.

His tongue could feel clearly the rubbing of its textured surface, stimulating his nerve endings and evoking strange feelings in him. His palate was attacked rhythmically and quickly, gaining and losing contact of the silicone head.

Sherlock didn’t know what to think of. On the one hand, there were disgust and humiliation coiling hot and low in his belly, burning his skins; but on the other hand…

_Damn, it feels so good._

The sense of humiliation made it even better.

He couldn’t swallow back his moan anymore. Shivering and stretching, partly due to the sensation and partly to make more noises out of the chains to cover his voice, Sherlock groaned with sheer abandon, not able to control, not even want to, completely succumbing to the most ferocious of desire and lust.

“Huh.. um… Ahuh….”

“You little slut, look how horny you are.” The voice was accompanied by yelling from the audience, “You horny omega just wanna be fucked hard. Now your mouth is full but you can make so much adorable noise. Delicious. I believe the audience want more.”

More yelling. Stronger smell.

The feeling of the dildo invading his mouth didn’t just stay where it was, instead it was more like rippling throughout his body, arousing dangerous expectations. Yes, expectations. He wanted it to fuck him, fuck his mouth, if he was honest, but his arse… that was where he needed this roughness most. The shape, the thickness, the length, the texture… it would be so good.

This disobedient and stirring expectation further eroded his rationality, leaving him delirious and aching for being fucked, being actually fucked.

The man quickened his move and thrust the dildo in deeper, into Sherlock’s throat, who gagged but after all took it. The submissive part of him, of an omega had been totally awakened, defying the authority of his brain, poisoning the faculties of his mind.

The hormones hallucinated him. Closing his eyes, Sherlock saw Laurence. It was supposed to be him. It _was_ him.

Laurence was topless, his lean muscles glittering under the light with sweat, his eyes closed and mouth open, his hips moving fast, his long, hard cock fucking his mouth with possessiveness and haste. It was now stirring his buccal cavity, thrusting at a different angle each time to force his mouth to open wider. Sherlock could vaguely register the clinking of the chains as he writhed and started moving himself, pulling his neck forward and backward, sucking on the cock, pleasing it. The sound of the air in his mouth and the dildo stirring his saliva was most erotic when coming out of the speakers.

Debauchery. Depravity. Perversity. Wantonness. Whatever.

_Fuck me._

He could hear Laurence moaning and cursing, could smell the strong intoxicating scent of alpha hormones – the sound and smell of the audience had amalgamated into one person, the one person who should have given him what he wanted, had been wanting, badly, urgently, desperately.

But the movement suddenly stopped. Sherlock pulled his neck as forward as his current humiliating position possibly allow him but the dildo was gone. He opened his eyes abruptly, “No…” And his voice echoed in the hall – it was husky and lustful.

“Oh precious, look how well you’ve done.” The voice brought him back to reality, if he could still see reality. “My friends, I believe you all can see what’s in this little slut. I’m not going to sully his virginity here.” Protests were loud in the audience. “His salacious arse will be at the mercy of whoever wins the bidding!” The audience boiled again, mixed with disappointment and excitement, presumably from those who were extremely rich and ungodly rich. The price on the screen had soared to £100,500.

Sherlock didn’t care about the figures. He was still mourning for the loss. The loss of the dildo, the sensation, and Laurence.

_Why don’t you just give it to me? It has been so long, too long. Please._

The cameraman again moved the video recorder away from his face and stepped back, shooting his body then his cock, and then…

Sherlock didn’t need to see or feel to know how inconceivably wet he was, but having the recorder directly shooting his cleft made him utterly aware of its dampness, and again, how much he would like to be fucked right here and now, all dignity be screwed.

His muscles were taut trying to bring his legs together but any effort he made only resulted in more noises from the chains and the crowd. He couldn’t believe he was still secreting lubricant. The physically perceptible feel of the thick liquid oozing out from his cleft, sticking there for a while before gravity and the twitching of his muscles made it drip onto the sheet, and of the wetness pooling beneath his arse, the sticky residue on his thighs after the water had dried…

And all of these were being filmed and watched by 200 alphas, with their hormones high and cocks erect, wanting to own him, claim him, fuck him hard and bond him. Oh there were 200 cocks out there.

“Please…” he murmured again, unable to hold it back.

“Oh precious, are you finally ready to beg? Beg nicely, and you would probably get what you want.” The man pointed at the screen, “See how much you are worth. I’ve never seen such a high price in all my years of experience. Now show us that you deserve it.”

The man turned around and took another thing out of the drawer and without showing it to him, he directly took it to where the recorder was pointing at, presenting it to the whole audience, the reaction of them being the only clue to him before the thing was pressed against the entrance of his arse and started vibrating.

“Ah… huh…” he moaned and his muscles tightened, and contracted, sucking it in involuntarily. “Um…” He didn’t know what it was but oh god forbid, it felt _so good_. He squirmed uselessly, his arse cheeks convulsing and shifting, desperate to feel more.

_More. I need more. Quickly. Come inside me._

But it wouldn’t. It just stayed there, teasing him, giving him unspeakable and dangerous sensation but denying his need, driving him nuts.

“Please…” he mumbled again, still not completing the sentence.

“Ask nicely.” The voice commanded, “How else would we know what it is that you want.”

“Let me…”

“Let you what?”

“Let me have… Ah… huh…”

“Can’t hear you.”

The vibrator was slightly pressed in, giving sensation to the inner muscles which hadn’t experienced the pleasure. Sherlock jerked and groaned even louder.

_More more more more more MORE!_

“More… huh…” Tinkling.

The vibrator moved and massaged the rim of the entrance. “More what?”

No, he couldn’t take it anymore. He just wanted it. Just wanted it to come into his arse and fuck him, fuck him hard. He just wanted release.

Sherlock was about to totally abandon himself when the audience suddenly made loud exclamations and curses, and the vibration stopped abruptly.

_No. Don’t stop._

The man holding the vibrator turned off his microphone and spoke into a walkie-talkie, nodding to the cameraman as he listened.

_What’s happened?_

Sherlock glanced around and for the first time the price on the screen caught his notice and gave him a surprise.

£1,000,000.

How rich would a guy be if he was willing to buy an omega for £1,000,000? It was insane. It was more likely to be an underground club or so, buying him as an investment, but still…

“My friends, distinguished guests, I believe we have a winner!” The man turned his microphone back on and announced. The disbelief of the audience was evident as words like “cheat”, “insider” and “fuck” kept coming to the stage.

The man, as a professional, stayed calm and said his lines to wrap up the auction, while Sherlock was being blindfolded, released but re-tied immediately by ropes, and taken to somewhere he didn’t know. The VIP chamber, most likely.

Minutes later he was taken into a room, tied to a pole or something. He didn’t know; he couldn’t see. Even his second nature of deducing everything was impeded. He felt weak and dizzy, and _horny_. The room was quiet although he could clearly feel the existence of men. He remained quiet, thinking of Laurence and Mycroft but not knowing what it was that he was actually thinking about. He would never see Laurence again, and Mycroft… how would Mycroft react if he had known all these? He couldn’t bear to think.

The door opened, and closed. Two men walked in and one sat down. That was all he could tell.

“So, Sherlock, isn’t it?” The man’s voice was sing-song and a bit feminine. “Sebastian told me you were the prettiest he had ever seen. I thought he was bragging.” The tone was arched.

Even without seeing the man’s face, Sherlock could clearly tell his playfulness, unscrupulousness and defiance, and, absolute power from this man’s voice. No matter who he was, he was not ordinary – but he supposed a man who had spent a million on him couldn’t be ordinary. He remained silent.

“Will you leave me and go after him, Sebastian?” He was clearly speaking to another person. Presumably it was the man who came in with and was currently standing next to him, the man named Sebastian.

“Never, Jim.” A voice answered, cold and obedient. Sherlock raised his head at it sharply – it was familiar.

“Oh look at him. He remembers you.” Jim spoke again, amusement evident in his voice, “Let me see his beautiful eyes. See how cruelty makes them shine with the sexiest despair.”

A minion removed the blindfold and Sherlock found himself in a well-furnished room, but the moment he could see, he lost any interest in observing anything, not even Jim. Because standing beside him, a tall, handsome man with dark short hair and shining green eyes was looking into him, smiling but without humour.

“I said we would meet again.” The voice was gentle and familiar, but no longer warm as it used to be.

Sherlock swallowed and drew in a deep, painful breath.

“Laurence.”


End file.
